Defense Mechanism
by 2 a.m. drabbles
Summary: It couldn't be helped. Sherlock jumped and there had been no plan to break the fall. Now he's trapped and only Mercy can see him. A small AU story that popped into my head one day, forgive me for the subtle prologue but I SWEAR it starts in Ch. 1. Sherlock/OC, Sherlock/John. Rated T for swearing
1. Prologue

Defense Mechanism

Prologue

It couldn't be helped.

The ancient Greeks and Romans believed that an artist's works was never entirely their own. Some would name it divine inspiration, a gift from some doting god above. Zeus himself walking among mortals, fingertips gracing the forehead of Homer, like water to plants and suddenly millions of ideas bloom within this mortal skull. Streaks of oily paint mesh themselves into their skin and the echoes of symphonies yet to be heard embed themselves in their ears. The artist was the tool, not entirely themselves, not entirely alone, they were a doorway. Others called it a genius. A crystal winged fairy that followed the artist wherever it went. Something only they could see. Their breath was theirs; the gossamer touch of their ideas could be felt by no other. The glint of their eyes and the twitch of their hand could only exist as long as the artist lived and breathed. And the Romans believed this, believed in the extension of an artist's soul into something other than colored flesh and crimson blood. A beast that existed within the man, creating smears of life and simultaneously lending itself to their creation. A beautiful idea wouldn't you agree?

It was inevitable.


	2. Chapter 1

Author's Note: Okay! Chapter 1 WITH Sherlock as promised! this is really more of an experiment to see whether you guys like this or not, but I really hope that you do (^u^). Thanks for taking the time to read my stuff and hopefully there's more to come soon enough! Now, Story time!

Defense Mechanism

Chapter 1

Tossing and turning she tried to escape the dream. What had been a walk in blue woods became a surreal nightmare. No, she didn't know where the flowers were hidden. Yes, that strange shadow _had_ been closing in on her since she'd started running. It was fruitless, she was doomed to run until she found the impossible hiding spot or the shadow thing would make a meal of her. Fruitless… fruitless….

Fruitless…

"Oh come now, even _you_ shouldn't be allowed to sleep in this late…"

Sunlight, that's the first thing she noticed about the room. It was filled with the golden rays of an early afternoon.

Shit.

Mercy Doyle rolled over within the sheets. She wasn't alone.

"Yes good job you've noticed the only other voice coming from within the limits of this room, bravo, now get up." A deep baritone voice spoke just beyond her bleary line of sight. Mercy shot up, banging her head into the shelf above her. Obviously that's what made the man in a long black coat appear before her, seated uncomfortably on her desk chair, glumly stroking the keyboard of her laptop.

"What the actual fu-"

"Oh please, do try to _not _swear, I hear enough of it from Anderson when he thinks I'm not listening… and sometimes when I am…"

"What's going on?!" She swung her legs off the mattress and gawked at the man properly. She rather enjoyed gawking, to be honest. He had smooth pale skin, and an unruly but unfairly attractive head of black curls. He could have easily towered over her if he stood, with lanky limbs and thin (but seemingly able) fingers. He was dressed in a black coat and a black tailored suit to match, a dark blue scarf was wrapped around his neck. All in all, he was a very handsome man… a very handsome man that did _not_ belong in her room. But there was something strange about this man… something different.

Mercy's eyes snapped back to the man's face, searching. There was blood streaked across his forehead, matting the hair on the left side of his temple.

"Oh my god…" she exhaled.

"Hmm, two minutes and twenty one seconds… how impressive." The tall man scrunched his face in obvious disdain. "Maybe after a few weeks you'll be able to notice it at first glance…" he crossed his legs and rested his head on his hand.

"Who. The hell. Are. You?" she finally managed to force out. He raised an eyebrow and sat up a little straighter.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes" the tall man murmured.

Mercy sat on the bed for a while, staring at the man that didn't belong in her room. Then she stood from the bed and began to walk towards the door.

"Oh! How silly of me of _course_ you're Sherlock Holmes! I mean really who _else_ could you have been hmm?" she thrust the door open and turned towards him "Are you sure you don't want to be someone else Mr. Holmes? Perhaps Jay Gatsby or Spiderman?!" she screamed the last part before running out into the living room.

Lucy Heathrow hated mornings. It was a simple fact that could easily be agreed on by many, but to Lucy it was a mantra. Weekday mornings, weekend mornings, holiday mornings (Mondays were a real bitch no matter what the occasion) any kind of morning was like nails on a dark green chalkboard to Lucy Heathrow.

Because of this, she wasn't happy when she a received a call from a certain Miss Doyle.

"Have I ever told you about how shitty the coffee place down the street is?"

"Countless times" came the voice from the other end of the line. Except the smile that usually accompanied it wasn't there. Instead the remark was accompanied by a quivering, whispering kind of tone.

Lucy sat up in her chair and began to drum her fingers against the table (a nervous habit she'd picked up as a child, and the reason why her co-workers referred to her as "The Master" during her dark moods) "Mercy what's wrong?"

Mercy opened her mouth, ready to blurt out a slew of nonsensical sentences that would eventually end up with a call to the police and Lucy getting to work late (again).

"It's just you, you know" a deep voice sighed from behind her.

Mercy spun around and saw the tall man standing in her kitchen. But that was impossible; she would have _seen_ him cross the living room. He would have had to push her out of the way, brush past her at the least. Lucy was silent on the other end of the line, waiting for a response. Hadn't she _heard_ him? She would have had to; he was speaking loud enough for her to hear… Mercy _had_ been screaming back there, and the window _had_ been open. Why hadn't her nosey elderly neighbors from across the window called to tell her about the strange man in her room?!

"I'll-… I-… never mind" she corrected into her phone before hanging up. She tossed it onto the couch and slumped down onto the floor.

"What _are_ you?" she whispered between her fingers.

"I am human, if that's what you're wondering…" this time his voice came from beside her. He stood a few inches away, stoically poised, as if he had just stepped down from something. Mercy flinched back and readjusted herself before him.

"But… are you, a ghost or something?"

The man snorted "No, there are no such things as…" he looked away thoughtfully.

"Well?" she asked, standing up. "Are you here to haunt me or is this some kind of 'sixth sense' deal or…?"

He looked down at her, staring with an almost unnerving intensity. Mercy hadn't really noticed the color of his eyes until now, they were… well, they…

"I'm not from here" he suddenly blurted aloud.

"You don't say…"

"No, I mean, I'm not from…_ here_."

She raised an eyebrow quizzically. "What you mean, like, parallel universes or something?"

He glared at her, "maybe…" he responded quietly.

Mercy snorted and turned around "Sure," she drawled out "Sherlock Homes has been gruesomely killed and is now trapped within a parallel universe, no _my _parallel universe, and can't get out" she stepped into the kitchen and pulled out a mug. She began to fill it with water "and not to mention; he can just apparate in and around my home in the blink of an eye! I mean-"

She turned from the sink and nearly dropped the mug. "Sherlock Holmes" stood ten inches from her, blocking out the light. He looked mad.

"Is there any other way you can explain my apparition from place to place? Or the fact that no one else is able to notice me- yes of course I've _tried_- obviously I'm here in your universe but just not entirely…"

Mercy pursed her lips. _Fuck it._

"Okay, sure. _Maybe_ you are from some other universe, but how do I know you're THE Sherlock Holmes, hmm? I very much doubt someone like that could actually exist, MUCH LESS coexist in society…"

Now the tall man looked livid.

"Fine. Let's start with the obvious shall we? You're an American student from Texas, studying to become… a novelist? Yes. Some form of creative literature, as is obvious from the indents on your forearms and the state of your cupboards… you've been here for about, what? Three, four months? You really should put up those suitcases you know…You're hair has been dramatically cut twice in the past five months and you were considering highlights but changed your mind at the last minute. You've recently run out of groceries but aren't worried because Lucy was going to drop by for lunch anyway… Unattached, which is painfully visible from the products on your bathroom counter and the location of your phone when you woke up. Every day you bump your head into that shelf right above where you sleep because you're too stubborn to move or remove the shelf, besides it blocks out the sunlight and you're a late sleeper, that much even John could figure out-"

He stopped.

Mercy's hands were shaking slightly and she had sloshed half of the mugs water onto herself and the floor. She looked up at him, flummoxed. But he wasn't looking at her anymore, he was worlds away. His gaze fixed on the wet mug and a sad feeling trapped in his eyes. It made her heart squeeze just a little.

"What are you…" she whispered again

He looked up, his eyes shining like a small boys, "I'm not entirely sure anymore…"


	3. Chapter 2

**Defense Mechanism**

Chapter 2

Mercy Doyle sat at her desk chair, a mug of hastily made tea lay on the desk beside her, cooling. She stared at the man with blood on his face.

"Well what happens now?"

"I can't be certain," he said in a hard voice.

Currently, Sherlock Holmes had taken to pacing about her room. Occasionally he would stop, lift his arms into the air above his head and stand as still as possible. Maybe, if he stood still enough, the answer to this bizarre problem would float low enough for him to catch it with his bare hands... Then he would groan, screw his face in concentration and begin to pace once more. Mercy had been watching him for the past twenty minutes.

"What time is it?" she murmured absently, trying to break the thick silence.

Mr. Holmes shrugged; he stepped onto her bed and began to jump on it.

"If my theory is correct- and it probably is- then your universe isn't that different from mine, considering the consistency of physics and the obviously standard progression of time… then I assume it would be safe to say it's about 12:45 in the afternoon… now of course you could have done the less idiotic thing and checked your phone, which before you protest, yes it _is _on the shelf behind you"

Mercy stared for a while before reaching back. She pressed a small button and the glass screen lit up with the numbers "12:46" before her.

"As to your lunch with _Lucy_, you'd best be getting ready. She's going to come up about five minutes before scheduled, she'll knock twice and let herself in anyway and then she'll suggest going to the café down the street…"

She shook her head and turned to her laptop.

_There was a time when the breeze spun flowers into our pool. The birds sang at my window each morning and every day I dined at a table with white linen cloths and polished silver. There was a time when I'd see the boy who cared for our prized roses out at work in the garden, and the only way I could approach him was with the curling embrace of my cigarette smoke. _

_How I would have loved for you to see those times._

_Where summer days never ceased and laughter hung along the walls. Those were beautiful days. If only I knew that then._

_It was in the summer when I met her. A fierce storm had taken the bay by surprise and I became a frightened bird trapped within a marble cage. I remember fluttering around ceaselessly, fussing over flower pots and dust covered tomes. And then there was a knock at our door. Mother and father sat in the parlor waiting patiently for someone who we weren't waiting for at all. I was curious by nature, and so I stood behind the pillar right before our entrance. The butler opened the door and in she came; as if pulled by some kind of magnet. She was beautiful._

"You're not doing it correctly."

"Oh?" Mercy turned from her laptop and looked at the man standing behind her. "Pray tell Mr. Homes; _what_ am I not doing correctly?"

His grey eyes focused onto her, and squinted in what was most likely contempt.

"She can't have possibly been infatuated from the very start-"

"Why not?"

"Because. With the way you've tried to portray her, she can't have been _that_ delicate and ready to fall in love."

"She's not delicate! She's… articulate."

Holmes snorted. "Of course she is. Which explains why she never bothered approaching the rose keeper"

"Holmes, she's a _lesbian_."

"That doesn't stop her from feeling some kind of affection towards-"

Two knocks sounded against the door. Mercy looked at the time on the corner of her screen- 1:25 – and glared at a smirking Sherlock. She calmly walked to the front room, Lucy Heathrow's smiling face beamed up at her from the sofa.

"You know it's really much more polite to wait for the host to answer the door."

Lucy laughed and tossed her arm around Mercy's shoulder.

"Darling, if I'd come here to be polite we'd both die of boredom and disappointment." She turned towards the bedroom door and began to march towards it.

"You know you kind of freaked me out earlier, is everything alright?" Lucy plopped down onto Mercy's bed, narrowly missing the bookshelf above. Sherlock snorted.

Mercy's eyes widened, Sherlock sat in her desk chair, spinning around in circles, his legs against the back, feet in the air.

"Mercy?"

She flinched and turned to the bed, "Sorry?"

Lucy's eyebrows knit together and she sat a little stiffer, "Is everything alright?" she reinstated a little more slowly. Mercy turned back to the chair, it sat still, empty and unused. She nodded and pulled a smile onto her face.

"Yeah- yeah sorry, I've just been feeling a little tired lately."

Lucy snorted, "Telling by the bruises under your eyes, I believe you." She sat up in the bed. "So what was it this time?" she began to bite at her nails.

"What… what do you mean?" Mercy asked uncertainly. Lucy's eyes crinkled and she released her finger from her mouth. "The story… what was it this time? The one that kept you up _that_ late." She gestured at Mercy's face.

Mercy blinked.

Right, the story.

She turned toward her desk and awoke her laptop. A word document pulled up on the bright screen. Lucy roughly sat herself in the desk chair, already too engrossed in the writing to see her ginger friend wince. Her eyes began traveling back and forth, reading the work. A small smile tugged at the side of her mouth, her eyebrows subtlety raised, Mercy noticed a small amount of dried syrup on the corner of her lips. She had had her famous 'Yes I am an adult, and hell yes I'm going to have those pancakes with a smiley face off of the kids menu" selection for breakfast. She had also spilled her coffee on some poor bystander, and had tripped a total of two times on the way over here, once coming outside and the second at the corner before her apartment block.

"It's good," Lucy smiled turning to look at her. Mercy smiled back "Thanks" she turned to her wardrobe and pulled out a sweater.

"So how did she do it?"

"Hmm?"

"How did she remember it all? I mean, yeah I get that she was still panicking and didn't really believe she was back, but how'd it happen?"

"Oh, well, I guess you could say a little birdie told her"

Lucy snorted, "Right."

"So what do you say about that lunch?"

"For christ's sake Mercy, not _that_ sweater again"

The sentences came out at the same time, jumbling awkwardly between the two friends. Mercy looked down at her selection; it wasn't a bad one, just slightly worn (or as Lucy put it: old enough to legally drink alcohol). It used to be her dads favorite Christmas sweater. Dark blue with red at the top and white spots.

Mercy rolled her eyes and began to walk toward the door, Holmes was sitting on the couch, neither of them looked in their direction. She spun toward the entrance to her room "Coming or am I going to have to bring you back the left overs?" Lucy walked out grumbling under her breath about tall people being inherently stubborn. She playfully pushed Mercy out of the way and walked to the front door.

"Coming?" Lucy asked as she stepped out.

Mercy looked at the man perched on her couch, the man with strange eyes and blood on his face, the one with no reason to be here. He looked up at her, his gaze hardening just slightly. He looked at her sweater, then he faced away.

"Yeah," Mercy called back, she gave him a lingering glance "coming…"


End file.
